The Greatest Showman

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Standing on the side of the stage, Levine placed the guitar in the corner, fumbled his pocket up and down, found a cigarette case, took out a cigarette, put it in his pocket, but it was already squeezed and scattered, and it fell sporadically. Some tobacco leaves and cigarettes also became wrinkled. However, he doesn't care.

He casually put it to his mouth, leaned his back against the wall, rubbed his hair irritably, and was thinking about where he should stay tonight.

Those guys who can be regarded as friends but not friends have already stayed overnight, and they all seem to be offended. Shouldn't it be like last night, hook up/up with a woman, and then take advantage of the trend to sleep at her house for a night? Otherwise, it's better to go to the professor's house and try his luck. They are always generous and kind. Seeing his down-and-out appearance, they shouldn't have the heart to refuse him.

For a while, I thought of tomorrow's performance again. I don't know if Pioneer Village is willing to give him a chance to perform, but the bar owner is a stupid jazz lover who doesn't seem to be interested in ballads; or try another bar, maybe he can try another one track.

"Fire?" A questioning voice came from his ear.

He didn't turn his head, just shook his head lightly to express his refusal, bit the cigarette holder lightly, "I'll be on stage soon."

"What, are you worried about Pappi to blame?" Pappi, the name of the bar owner.

He couldn't help laughing, "No." After a moment's pause, he explained lightly, "Just because of the performance." Although this is an ordinary performance, it is his persistence to try to be as professional as possible during the performance. .

Suddenly thinking of something, he turned his head and looked at the bartender beside him, "I haven't found a place to stay tonight, how about it, can I come to your house for a night?" They are not familiar with it, but give it a try, anyway No loss. "I'm a very quiet sleeper and I'm not picky, a sofa and a blanket will do, provided you have heating in your home."

The bartender didn't speak and stayed in place, as if he didn't expect him to make such a request, and they didn't even say a few words.

He didn't mind either. He bit the cigarette holder again, as if he was tasting the bitterness in the tobacco leaves. Then he stuffed the cigarette into his shirt pocket and pouted, "I guess, your house has no heating." He complained. , then picked up the guitar and walked quickly onto the stage, leaving the bartender standing there, confused, as if he didn't know what was going on.

In the bar, the chattering noise was still humming, someone was enjoying dinner, someone was drinking beer, someone was lighting a cigarette, and no one seemed to notice his presence.

But it doesn't matter.

Sit down skillfully, habitually begin to tune, listen to the sound of the strings, feel the strength of the fingertips, and then he starts to play. Decided to sing "Hang me, oh hang me" tonight.

Perhaps, this is the most fitting track, not only because his partner mickey just died, by suicide, that idiot; but also because it suits the mood tonight, now, on the gallows Doesn't seem like a bad thing.

He hummed softly, gradually immersed in his own world, "God is pitiful", is this talking about Mickey or himself? Or is it...every poor guy who plays ballads? Or the idiots who walk into battle with rifles on their shoulders? The smile on the corner of his mouth rose involuntarily, helplessly and mockingly.

After a song was sung, there was sparse applause and a few whistles from the audience. Lonely and empty, there was a lot of loneliness in the depths of his heart, dragging his ankles and slowly falling, he took a deep breath, hiding all his emotions tightly, and half-jokingly said, "You may have heard of it before. This one."

The movement in his hand did not stop, he quickly packed his things, and left the last sentence, "If a song has never been new, but it has never been outdated, it is a folk song."

There was a chuckle from the audience, and he couldn't help but raise the corner of his mouth, raised his right hand for a brief gesture, and then left the stage with the guitar.

Today's performance is over. In the kerosene lamp bar, the time to perform a song is very precious, because this is the most popular bar in Greenwich Village, and the folk singers eager to perform are like sardines migrating in winter. generally.

A middle-aged man with a scruffy beard approached, with a contented smile on his face, "Wonderful, wonderful." This was Ethan Cohen, he remembered. "Joel and I just checked, all the filming is over, the first scene was perfect, God, we can't believe it, tonight's show is really good."

Ethan patted his arm, "Now, we can call it a day. But, Stanley just said, you're going to give a short performance to thank the fans and fans who are there? Is that so? If so, That couldn't be better, it's a treat for all of us."

Ethan smiled and couldn't hide his excitement, "Joel was saying just now that the time for a song is really too short, maybe, we should shoot a concert. Ha." But then, he noticed his own There was no response to the words, "How do you feel? Or, you feel too tired now. If so, it doesn't matter. I believe everyone will understand."

"No, it's fine. I just wanted to smoke a cigarette, but... smoking can wait." He raised his eyebrows, his eyes

There was a smile at the bottom, but the smile was fleeting, and a bit of self-deprecating bitterness and sarcasm flowed out, "Who can refuse an invitation to perform at the Kerosene Lamp Bar now? At least I can't. I'll take the stage again now."

Ethan stood there, slightly stunned.

He ignored Ethan, turned around, walked onto the stage again, and sat down in front of the microphone, "Hey, I'm back again."

He exhaled a long breath and rubbed his hair again. The messy hair was completely out of control, but the light during the interlace vaguely outlined the chic and laziness between the eyebrows, and a trace of irritability was invisible. , and finally, with a deep breath, it disappeared completely, turning into a small smile on the corner of his mouth.

"I thought, maybe tonight, we can spend a few more songs together." He hugged the guitar again, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.

I don't know why, I always think of Mickey tonight. He doesn't know why Mickey chose to end his life, and he doesn't know why Mickey chose to give up. Or maybe he knew, but he didn't want to face it.

The 1960s, the long 1960s, the dark and damp years, the bitter and dazed time, the depressing and rough life, like drowning and suffocating, when will they break through the water and get out of the 1960s? However, it is only 1961 now, and the distant end is completely in sight, just a daze.

He couldn't help being a little stunned. How long can this dream last?

"But, it's no longer about hanging and hanging, let's do something else." His words caused low laughter in the bar, and then he stopped talking, and his fingertips began to gently outline the strings , Irregular chords gradually found orderly patterns in the chaos, and finally converged into a gurgling stream, passing through the lingering mist.

The brisk strings are like the sika deer running and jumping happily in the jungle and mountain streams. Little by little, they push through the morning fog to find a quiet lake in the deep mountains and dense forests. A thin ray of sunshine is like the sky. Up, magically, the flowers are blooming, the colors are colorful, the mist is surging, and the paradise is quiet and moving.

This is an unfamiliar melody, which I have never heard before. Gradually, the whole bar became quiet, and all eyes fell on the figure without moving. The murmur of time seemed to be ringing in my ears, but It has completely lost its meaning, and Wannian is just a blink of an eye.

The calm eyes, the expression of the clouds and the wind, and the calm aura, it seems that everything has lightened up, and even the noise of breathing has disappeared in the breeze; but the vague bitterness and disappointment are not. In the light and shadow, little by little, people can't help but start to explore the stories and scars in the depths of those eyes.

A touch of sadness, like the blue sky in March, only a few strokes of clouds streak across the sky sparsely and lazily.

"Forget it, this skinny-love lasted only a year; add a pinch of salt, and we're not going to be there. God, God, God, staring blankly at the pools of blood and the ground camouflage."

The drooping eyelids covered the thrilling eyes of those eyes; the hoarse voice revealed the dark tide in the depths of the soul. Then, the fingertips began to strum the strings quickly, the melody became more and more brisk and the rhythm became more and more surging, but the heart became more and more precipitation, slowly sinking in the crystal clear lake.

Biting cold.

The phrase "My God" is forbearance and sigh, but in this battle of love, I am losing step by step and I am helpless.

At this moment, the whole world was quiet, and I listened carefully. The sound of love breaking apart, slight but heavy, fell apart in an instant, like the world collapsing.

Different from the unrestrained and vicissitudes and bitterness of "hang me, oh, hang me", the freshness and lightness of this song are interpreted between the melody, but the sadness and melancholy revealed behind it are sung lightly. Among them, slowly infiltrated.

The sky in the 1960s was gray, everything was forbearance, everything was unrestrained, everything was dark, everything was chaotic, they were running wildly, trying to chase the ethereal... Freedom and dreams, as well as justice and conscience, but after chasing after them, they lost their way, and then stood in place, at a loss.

In order to protect the fragility deep in their hearts, they arm themselves with unruly and unruly, pretending that they don't care about everything, and it seems that they will not be hurt again.

"My God, my God, my God."

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